The Unexpected Heiress (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 1) Read online

  The Unexpected Heiress

  A Nick Williams Mystery

  Book 1

  By Frank W. Butterfield

  Nick Williams Mysteries

  The Unexpected Heiress

  The Amorous Attorney

  The Sartorial Senator

  The Laconic Lumberjack

  The Perplexed Pumpkin

  The Savage Son

  The Mangled Mobster

  The Iniquitous Investigator

  The Voluptuous Vixen

  The Timid Traitor

  The Sodden Sailor

  The Excluded Exile

  The Paradoxical Parent

  The Pitiful Player

  Nick & Carter Stories

  An Enchanted Beginning

  Golden Gate Love Stories

  The One He Waited For

  Their Own Hidden Island

  © 2016 by Frank W. Butterfield. All rights reserved.

  No part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book contains explicit language.

  This is a work of fiction that refers to historical figures, locales, and events, along with many completely fictional ones. The primary characters are utterly fictional and do not resemble anyone that I have ever met or known of.

  Cover photo of woman by Chris Lund used via Creative Commons (CC BY 2.0). Photo digitized by Library and Archives Canada (e010949002).

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  http://nickwilliamspi.com/

  NW01-K-20170916

  Contents

  Author's Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Author's Note

  Acknowledgments

  Historical Notes

  More Information

  Unexpected

  ən-ik-ˈspek-təd

  1. Not expected. Unforeseen.

  Heiress

  ˈer-əs

  1. A woman who is an heir especially to great wealth

  Author's Introduction

  Daytona Beach, Fla.

  September 16, 2017

  A few minutes past 1 in the afternoon

  Thanks for your interest in The Unexpected Heiress!

  This is the first book in what is now a series of fourteen volumes with three additional books on the side. When I first sat down to write this story, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. But I'm awfully glad that I did. What a fun ride it's been!

  I had no idea where this story was going beyond the first chapter, but I let the story write itself and let the characters introduce themselves. That's still the way it works and it makes writing these stories a whole heck of a lot of fun.

  Without giving too much away, I can tell you there are six people you'll meet in this book who will, if you'll let them, be revealing more and more of themselves to you as the stories continue from one book to the next.

  First, there's Nick. He's the narrator. He grew up in what he calls a "big pile of rocks" on Nob Hill in San Francisco, mostly during the Depression. He lives in Eureka Valley (you probably know it as The Castro) and drives around town in a 1952 Buick Super. He's been a private dick for a few years. Before that, he was an orderly at the City Hospital down on Potrero. And before that, he was a medical corpsman in the Navy, back during the war.

  Then, there's Marnie. She's Nick's secretary and a great gal. Nick works, but he's not too busy, so she's taught herself to knit since she started working for him back in 1950.

  Next is Jeffery. He's a lawyer whose swank office is on the tenth floor of the Shell Building down at the bottom of Bush Street. He's Nick's lawyer, his friend, and was once his lover.

  And then there's Carter. He's the love of Nick's life and they live together in a little bungalow on Hartford Street. He's a big guy. Stands at 6'4" and, as a devotee of physical culture, is covered with muscles. He's a fireman down at Station 3 on Post Street. Or he was. But lately he's been off work because of an unfortunate run-in with a fire truck. He's from Georgia and first came to San Francisco back in '39.

  Next, we have Mike. He's a big guy, too. A little taller than Carter. He has electric blue eyes along with a face that someone once called, "movie monster handsome." He's a police lieutenant at the North District station and a real good guy all around. He was Nick's first lover and is still his best friend.

  Finally, we have Dr. Williams, Nick's father. He's something else. I'll let him introduce himself to you. That's probably best.

  In The Unexpected Heiress, you get to meet these folks and decide if you like them well enough to know more about them. If you do, I hope you'll move on to The Amorous Attorney, which takes us down Mexico way and involves... I don't wanna give too much away. Not yet.

  Well, that's it. I'll let Nick take over from here. Have a walk around. Kick the tires. See how it goes. Enjoy your time with Nick, Carter, Marnie, Mike, and the rest of the gang. And be sure to let me know what you think: nickwilliamspi.com

  Chapter 1

  777 Bush Street, Third Floor

  San Francisco, Cal.

  Monday, May 11, 1953

  Half past 10 in the morning

  She walked through the door of my private office like she was gliding on air.

  Her curves were definitely in all the right places. The dress she wore made sure I knew it.

  She removed the veil from her face and pinned it back on her hat, which was perched precariously on her upswept hair.

  She sat down and leaned in, making sure I could see all the way down her ample cleavage.

  As she sat there, I asked, "Would you like a cigarette?"

  She smiled and nodded. I offered her one and she took it. I leaned over and lit it for her.

  She pulled on it like she was finally getting a drink of water after a forced march in the desert. When she exhaled, she smiled at me and asked, "You work alone?"

  I nodded. "How can I help?"

  She looked down demurely as if there was one very specific way I could help.

  I waited.

  Finally, she looked up and said, "It's over between me and Johnny and I need some proof."

  I took out a pad and pencil and began to make some notes. We went through the usual questions: her name, his name, how long they'd been married, her address, the hotel she thought he had been habituating of late, and, most importantly, the name of the other woman.

  "Oh, but Mr. Williams, it ain't some dame, it's a guy." She spit out the last words like she'd just bit down on a sour pickle and couldn't wait to be rid of it.

  I looked up and said, "Yeah?"

  She nodded. "If I'd known Johnny was a fairy when I married him..." She looked up and shrugged.

  "What? What would you have done?" I asked, keeping my voice level.

  "You know. I would have told my pops and he would have had some of the guys down at his bar do a number on Johnny and let him know what's what."

  I stood up and put on my coat.

  She made an "O" with her mouth. I guessed that was her way of expressing shock or maybe astonishment.

  "Wait. How much do I owe yo
u?"

  "Not a thin dime, miss."

  "Really? You work for free?"

  "Oh no," I said as I put on my hat and extended my hand to help her stand up. "I don't work for free."

  "I'm confused."

  "No, you're not. You're just angry. You thought he loved you but you knew all along he wasn't the right man. Why did you even marry him?"

  Now she was angry. She refused my hand and stayed planted in the chair.

  "I had to get out of Pop's house, didn't I?"

  "Well, they have wonderful residential hotels for women these days. Or so I'm told. You get three squares, a comfortable bed, and bath down the hall all at an affordable price. Daily, weekly or monthly rates offered."

  She giggled. "You're funny."

  "No miss. What I am is a homosexual and I don't work for clients who aren't polite and can't even talk about their soon-to-be ex-husbands without calling them words like 'fairy' or 'fruit'."

  She stood up haughtily. "I should have known you was one of them. There oughta be a law."

  "There is one in most states of our great nation. Now, can I walk you to the elevator while I give you a couple of names to call on? These are gentlemen who will be happy to help you. And they won't care what you call your husband as long as you pay up front and cover their daily incidentals."

  She stopped at the door and turned on me. "So, what you're sayin' is that since I called Johnny a fairy, you ain't gonna help me?"

  "That's right, miss."

  "Well, I never!"

  "Well, now you have."

  We walked into the front office. I saw Marnie shaking her head as I opened the door.

  I walked her down the dark, little hallway to the ancient, creaky elevator and gave her the names of some of the cheaper, but still good enough, private detectives I knew who would gladly help her out.

  As the door closed, I lifted my hat and heard her giggle.

  I walked back to my office and looked at the letters that had been recently been painted on the frosted glass:

  Nicholas Williams

  Private Detective

  Licensed and Bonded

  PR-7777

  10 a.m. - 4:30 p.m.

  And By Appointment

  I sighed and thought about all the money I'd spent to get this office, hire Marnie, get that particular phone number, and even have the glass painted.

  Not that it really mattered. I didn't need to work. I had what my friend and attorney Jeffery Klein called, "An unbreakable trust." It was left to me by a venerable great-uncle who, from all accounts, put the word "gay" in the "Gay Nineties" that San Francisco was infamous for.

  He was a rake of the worst sort and, apparently, saw the tendency in me, and so skipped everyone else and their outstretched hands and landed the whole pile in my lap at the tender age of 21.

  I was surprised and shocked by the bequest. I'd only met old Uncle Paul once, but, as I later learned, he'd been keeping a watchful eye on me through the stormy years of my misspent youth before I'd enlisted in the Navy and gone off to fight for freedom, democracy, and the American Way.

  My shock turned to unsurprised disgust when every relative, near and far, decided to sue. The California dockets were cluttered for about five years with the details of Uncle Paul's sordid life and the injustice of handing untold millions over to a kid of 21.

  Learned judges rebuked Uncle Paul in writing, and at great length, for his lascivious ways. They lectured me about squandering my inheritance in similar fashion. But, in the end, they had all thrown up their hands and declared the trust was valid and the inheritance was mine to do with as I wanted.

  When the whole gang of relatives got together and appealed to the California State Supreme Court, the case was thrown back at them, with a vengeance, and they were told to go home and nurse their wounds.

  And they did. None of them, my own father included, would now talk to me and, from what I'd heard, my name was never mentioned on Nob Hill or even down in Hillsborough where some of the younger family members were relocating to build their mansions on vast, two-acre spreads.

  I opened the door and saw Marnie standing there, hands on her hips. "So, you threw another one out, didn't you?"

  I took off my hat and said, "Don't harass me, Marnie. You know I don't need the work."

  "Yeah, I know. You don't need the work. But you go a little stir when you ain't got the work and I love working here.

  "Oh! The characters that come through that door give Mother and me a chuckle. It's better than anything on the radio or the TV.

  "But, lord! I can't sit here, knitting my hands till they bleed, and watch you slowly go crazy."

  I smiled at her and said, "You're a real friend, Marnie."

  "Well, I ain't the only one you got. That Klein, he wants to talk to you. Seems like he's got a case for you. And it's the Polk Street kind."

  I put my hat back on my head, gave Marnie a quick kiss on the cheek, and said, "Thanks doll. See you later."

  Chapter 2

  On Bush Street

  Monday, May 11, 1953

  A little past 11 in the morning

  Jeffery Klein, Esquire, had offices down the street and in another world. His suite was found on the tenth floor of The Shell Building at 100 Bush Street, right at the corner of Battery Street, just a block from Market.

  I took a walk down the long, sloping hill. It was only seven blocks but what a difference those seven blocks could make.

  The trashy Tenderloin slowly transformed into the more respectable Financial District.

  I lit a Camel, not so usual for me those days, as I walked down and passed by building after building of apartments, with some respectable and low-cost hotels, and a flop or two. I strolled past the late-night market and over the Stockton Street Tunnel. The Pacific Telephone Building, a couple of blocks down, now less sloping, from Stockton was right about where the Tenderloin faded away and the Financial District began to assert itself. Three more blocks down on the flat part of Bush, after crossing Montgomery and Sansome, was the glorious Shell Building, all white and gold pushing 29 stories into the sky.

  I pushed through its understated but always-shiny brass doors and entered the plush environs of all that 1929 hoped it would become but never quite achieved. Fortunately, even in a depression, the world still ran on oil, so the primary tenant, one Royal Dutch Shell, didn't worry so much about leasing conditions.

  The Shell Building was air conditioned, of course, even though no one needed air conditioning when we had the Golden Gate to keep us cool most days. It could be baking over in Sacramento in the middle of July while we were sitting cool in the low 60s. It's why I loved the City. Well, one of the reasons.

  Tony, the elevator man, was polite as always. "Welcome back, Mr. Williams."

  "How are you today, Tony?"

  "Can't complain."

  He closed the door and moved the lever to the mark for the tenth floor. I'd been coming in and out of Jeffery's office long enough that he knew me by now.

  "How's Anna?"

  "She's getting better. Doctor says she may be able to start walking soon."

  Anna was the youngest of Tony and Antoinette's four children and the one to catch the polio. It had been a heartbreaking story that involved an iron lung at one point but things were looking up.

  "Well, give my best to Antoinette and all the kids and I'll be sending along a little something to help Anna keep her mind off her troubles."

  We reached the tenth floor and Tony said, "You're such a kind man, Mr. Williams. I'm sure she'll be happy to have it."

  I lifted my hat to him and said, "Have a good day, Tony."

  "The same to you, sir." And, with that, the door closed and I turned to the right.

  Jeffery's suite of offices was at the end of the hallway. He had the whole side of this building. He'd started his practice right out of the war, in 1945, and specialized in helping any veteran who would come his way, often deferring or refusing payment when he knew the poo
r guy couldn't afford it. Some of those veterans had done very well for themselves and had brought Jeffery with them as their little enterprises turned into big enterprises. The confidence Jeffery had shown them when he was a one-man outfit in a dusty office had been repaid many times over when these clients had stuck with him. So, instead of moving their business to the white-shoe crowd, as they grew and grew, they stuck with their buddy. It was a real help because, with a last name like Klein, Jeffery would never be in the country-club set, where all the high-flying deals were made, not even in San Francisco.

  I opened the door and was greeted by Robert, the cute and all-smiles receptionist. He smiled broadly and said, "Good afternoon, Mr. Williams. I'll let Mr. Klein know you're here. Have a seat, won't you?"

  I nodded, took off my hat, and had a seat. I picked up the latest copy of Time magazine. There was a nice illustrated photo of the new Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare on the cover. Eisenhower was settling in, and Oleta Culp Hobby was one of the new ones he was bringing into his cabinet, replacing the old brain trust guys and gals.

  I flipped through the magazine and skipped the latest news from Washington and elsewhere, the story detailing the infiltration of Communists in south-east Asia, and turned straight to where the more salacious parts of the magazine are to be found, which are always in the back. A one-paragraph item under "Jots & Notes" caught my eye.

  Whither Wells?

  Hollywood boy wonder up for new part in It Was Raining Then against vivacious leading lady, his gal pal. Could this mean wedding bells at long last for confirmed bachelor Taylor Wells? Wells and long-time friend, Miss Rhonda Starling, were spotted canoodling at the Copa while in town for contract talks with Metro. No one knows what these two are up to, not even Winchell.

  I looked at the picture of Taylor and Rhonda and I knew what they were up to. She was providing cover for him, and he was providing cover for her.

  If they got married, it would be strictly for the gifts and the publicity. Her wild parties with the sweater set in Brentwood were getting harder and harder to keep out of the press, or so I'd heard. And his bachelor pad, where no woman had ever been seen, reportedly had a sling in the back bedroom. These tidbits of Hollywood gossip always seemed to float up the coast but no one had ever seen the sling, as far as I could find out.